The Great Creative Sabotage
by Azrael-013
Summary: Hired by an unknown employer, a fan and her assembled team of elite crackpots attempt to do what should have done long before, infiltrate the WWE Creative Team. PG13 for humor and language.
1. The Pushy, Unwanted, Unknown, WouldBe E

**The Great Creative Sabotage**

Genre: Humor  
Rating: T-13  
Summary: Hired by an unknown employer, a fan and her assembled team of elite crackpots attempt to do what should have done long before, infiltrate the WWE Creative Team. PG-13 for humor and language.

Dsiclaimer: I own nothing used in this story but myself. All other fan authors own themselves. All superstars own themselves. WWE is owned by Vince McMahon. I consider myself fortunate in that I don't own or personally know any of the members of the Creative Team.

This is a sequel of sorts to 'The Great Diva Sabotage', which I finished some time last year. I think my only way to handle stuff I don't like with things I don't have the power to change may be to fictionally sabotage it. Well, it'll at least serve to take my mind of things, and hopefully amuse and entertain anybody else who reads it.

Date Uploaded: 07 March 2006

**Chapter 01: The Pushy, Unwanted, Unknown, Would-Be Employer**

It was in the dead of night when a shrill ring cut into the peace and quiet. Another followed, then another, and another. Outside, a restless dog had picked up the noise and began to howl.

There was a muffled groan and the messy heap of blankets on the queen-sized bed began to move. A hand emerged and groped around, knocking off the alarm clock on the end table in the process, before finally closing around the cordless receiver of the phone. It was flicked on and withdrawn into the nest of covers.

The person underneath cleared her throat and spoke groggily, "What," somehow making it more of a statement than a question.

"Azrael," a stiff, robotic voice responded. "I have a proposition for you."

The response was a long, drawn-out yawn. "Have you any idea what time it is, you tool? Go play your little phone prank on somebody else."

"This is no prank. Are you awake?"

"What kind of moronic question is that?" Azrael snapped, drowsiness slowly starting to be replaced with anger. "Would I be talking to you if I wasn't?"

"A simple 'yes' would suffice."

"Not when you happen to be the reason I'm awake in the first place." Azrael sat up, got caught under one of the blankets, spent a moment cursing and fumbling before managing to break her head free into the night air and get into a sitting position.

"Relax, Azrael. I didn't call for the sole purpose of irritating you in the middle of the night. In fact, to expound on my statement earlier, I would like to employ you."

"I work for no one," Azrael growled most unimpressively, considering she was trying to trace the number from her caller ID, ending up leaning out of bed too much and almost crashing face-first onto the floor.

"If you were wondering, I'm making this call from a phone booth, so even if you did track the number down, it would be next to impossible to find who used it."

"I could always put the phone down, you know."

"And yet you haven't." Somehow the robotic voice sounded triumphant.

"Do you WANT me to put the phone down?" Azrael snapped.

It was quiet for a moment as the two on either end tried to assess who was in control of the situation. Finally, with no firm winner in light, the mystery caller spoke again. "I assume this means you'll hear me out?"

"Fine," Azrael said, rubbing her eyes. "But if your reason for waking me up at this hour isn't up to scratch, I assure you I WILL find you. Or the phone goes down, whatever's easier."

"I see. Well, I'll begin then," the robotic voice cleared his or her throat. "I want you to take on the WWE creative team."

There was a quiet moment as Azrael processed this information. And then she answered, "Phone going down."

"No, wait, listen—"

But the receiver met the cradle with a resounding thud as Azrael brusquely hung up on him or her. She groaned, trying to get some semblance of order among the various covers and comforters on her bed. Almost as an afterthought, she reached back over and yanked the phone jack, disconnecting it. And then with a few more curses and grunts, she rolled over and mercifully resumed her sleep. 

**»»»**

"'Take on the creative team'?" T'laren chortled as he put down his cup of tea. "Was that nut-job for real?"

"Honestly I don't know, but at three in the morning I didn't care," Azrael replied, draining the rest of her mocha latte.

It was eleven in the morning later that day and Starbucks had its regular flow of customers coming and going. Azrael, still grumpy from her interrupted sleep, had been jerked to her senses a few minutes ago when somebody had thumped on the window where she was sitting. Upon seeing that it was T'laren, she had invited him to join her and thus the two of them were seated, Azrael sipping coffee and T'laren tea, like so many pretentious young people before them.

"Could've been fun, though," T'laren said thoughtfully, leaning back in his seat. "Pissing off people you don't like AND getting paid for it. I want a job like that."

"Well in the meantime doing it as a hobby isn't half-bad either," Azrael said, cracking a smile.

"Yeah, but the equipment doesn't come cheap, though," T'laren said with a sigh. "Where's my sandwich?"

"Let's call someone," Azrael said, twisting around in her seat. She needn't have bothered, though, as at that moment one of the boys behind the counter had appeared with T'laren's order in hand. "Ah, good, and get me another one of these too, would you?" she asked, lifting her empty glass.

"Sure. And here," he said, handing her a folded sheet of paper.

"What's this?" she asked, taking it from him.

"Honestly, I don't know," he said, shrugging. "It came from the fax machine addressed to you, Azrael." Azrael was one of their regulars. Very regular. Sometimes a grumpy 6.30 in the morning regular. "I'll go get that refill for you now." He left.

"So what is it?" T'laren asked, already digging into his sandwich and trying not to get the overstuffed vegetables to fall on the table surface.

Azrael's eyes had narrowed as she gingerly opened the piece of paper. She skimmed it briefly and then silently handed it to T'laren.

He took it and appraised it through bites. It was simply addressed to Azrael on top, followed by a short note down in the middle that said:

'_I beg you to reconsider. Come to the old church across the park tonight at nine so that we can talk about the specifics. I will be waiting in the fourth confessional box. I know I will you see you there. And if you're curious, I pay quite generously.'_

"Persistent little fucker, this guy," T'laren said, putting the note down. "Kinda creepy too. So what are you going to do about this?"

By this time a new mocha latte had been placed on the table. Azrael calmly took a sip from it. "First I want to find out how this guy is spying on me and where."

T'laren nodded. "Been looking around myself. Nobody in particular stands out. But then again that would be the mark of a good spy, wouldn't it?" he calmly scanned the area out of the corners of his eyes. "Can't tell if anybody's been lingering in or out of the place for longer than they should. That means this guy is either very good or can hire extremely good people."

"Hmm, someone of means," Azrael mused, glancing at the note again.

"So what're you going to do? Keep ignoring this guy?" T'laren asked, taking another bite of his sandwich.

"No, I have a better idea," Azrael said, grinning in a conniving manner. "I'm going to show up. His or her problem will be that you will too."

T'laren grinned with her. "I'm game. So what do you have in mind?"

**»»»**

The old church was an elegant but now somewhat dilapidated building whose gothic-like façade was marred more by the modern shopping center situated near it. A different shade of brown paint, used by nuns to cover graffiti, dominated most of the west wall and was clearly visible even in the dim glow of the streetlight. Azrael took little notice of it as she crossed the street from the park and entered the church.

Inside was the picture of serenity, with the choir practicing hymns up near the altar and a few of the devout scattered in the pews, head bowed. A drop fell from the ceiling and splashed into the basin of holy water to the right. Azrael looked up to see that heavy rains had rotted the wood and was now leaking through. Looking around she spotted the confessionals and walked over, stopping in front of the fourth one.

The door to the compartment meant for the priest was locked. That was to be expected, Azrael supposed. With a sigh she slid into the private section beside it and closed the door.

"Ah, good, I like people who are punctual," the same digitalized voice said.

Azrael looked visibly uncomfortable with her surroundings. "If only to get all of this over with quickly."

"For somebody named after an angel you don't seem to be too happy with where you are."

"Oh I'm sorry, I didn't realize we were here to talk about my personal shit," Azrael said sarcastically.

"Of course. My apologies."

While they had been bickering Azrael had taken the time to examine the veiled window in front of her. There was a shadow that was decidedly human behind the covering. She frowned. This seemed a little too easy.

Outside the church there was an inconspicuous black van parked at the curb. Inside T'laren tapped the earphones he was wearing as he fidgeted with the screens and various gadgets. There was too much static in the old church, what with the choir practice and all. There was some underlying disturbance he was pretty sure wasn't supposed to be there, though.

Before he could deduce what it was, something bounded to his side and dropped heavily in the seat, startling him. "T'laren, I'm bored! Are we actually going to do something that doesn't involve sitting around?"

"Katy, don't do that!" T'laren snapped, fixing his earphones and giving his companion an impatient look. "Listen, I told you what we were going to do when I called you up, remember?"

"Yeah, you said we were going to catch this psycho who's pestering Azrael about sabotaging the WWE writing team," Katy sulked, crossing her arms. "Somehow that gave me the impression that it was going to be more exciting than all this," she gestured into the air.

"What can I get you to keep you quiet for the next ten minutes?"

Katy brightened a little at that. "An ice cream sundae. Caramel. With chocolate sprinkles on top."

"I meant anything readily accessible in this van, Katy."

"Though luck. Those are my conditions, take them or leave 'em, pal. It's either that or I start singing 'My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean' in falsetto, pissing off even Azrael. She can hear us, right?"

"Oh you wouldn't dare."

Katy gave him a look that clearly stated, 'Oh wouldn't I?' and then took a deep breath before beginning to bellow, "MY BONNIE…"

"All right, all right!" T'laren yelled, tossing off his headphones and sliding the van door open. "But stay in this van, keep quiet and back Azrael up on anything she needs, got it?"

"I promise," Katy said sweetly, already having taken his evacuated seat. "Hurry up now, wouldn't want all that ice cream to melt on the way back, now do we?"

T'laren grumbled something under his breath as he closed the door and set off for the chopping center. "I knew I should have called Luke instead…"

Back inside the church, Azrael resiliently kept her outward calm demeanor, despite the fact that Katy had resolutely broken her promise and was now singing something out of the chorus line of 'Cinderella'. She tapped her earpiece and sighed. "We should have called Luke…"

"Did you say something?" the person behind the window said.

"Just wondering why on earth I'm here," Azrael said back sharply. "So, are you going to pitch your idea to me in a hopefully more palatable form or will I have to call this another waste of an hour of my life?"

"I've already given you the gist of what I want," the robotic voice said as impatiently as a robotic voice would allow. "The WWE creative team. You know as well as I do how much of a shambles it is. Despite what you did to serve as a boost in the women's division a few months ago, few changes have been made. Stephanie is still as absent as ever, which can now be forgiven due to her condition."

"Oh yes, carrying the Baby Game," Azrael said with a sigh. "A gargantuan task indeed, especially if it'll grow up to be anything like its father."

A rather eerie chuckle came from the distorted voice. "I was informed about your dry wit."

"Really? And what else?"

"That's irrelevant. We should get back to business now, as I'm sure you'd like to make it back home in time to watch 'Lost' reruns."

Azrael blinked. This guy knew way too much about her for her liking.

"Following Eddie Guerrero's death it seems WWE Creative decided that the two hour special in his honor held enough class to tide them into next year, giving them a free hand into making as many stinkers as they want. As a result we've had Shelton Benjamin's momma, Edge's poor transitional run, the Spirit Squad, Mark Henry, the weakest Tag Team Division to date, the return of the Vince McMahon Kiss My Ass Club and…"

"The ever lovable Randy Orton declaring 'Eddie is in hell'," Azrael finished for him. "Decided to save the worst for last, huh?"

"Call it the cherry on top of the shit pile, if you will."

"So what is it exactly that you want me to do?" Azrael said, tapping her earpiece again as Katy found the stereo in the van and cranked it up so that the Arctic Monkeys' 'I Bet You Look Good on the Dance Floor' was reverberating through her head.

"Like I said, take on the Creative Team."

"How?" Azrael said impatiently. "Storm in on them with guns blazing, kick them out on their asses and declare that I'm taking over, despite not being affiliated with WWE whatsoever? I'd get arrested. Or sued. Again."

The robotic voice made a noise of displeasure. "Azrael, I'm disappointed in you. You're a woman of more finesse than that, and I'm insulted that you assume I think differently."

"Right now I think you're a douchebag. Would that be an inaccurate assumption as well?"

"You guys bicker too much," Katy suddenly said into Azrael's ear with a yawn for emphasis. "Can't I just burst in there now and kick his side of the booth open? I know it's a church, but I'll try to be discreet."

"Assemble a small team of your own," the voice continued, unaware of the other voice in Azrael's ear or her discomfort. "Make sure that they are quick, trustworthy and capable. Assure them that they'll be well paid for their efforts. From there infiltrate WWE Creative. Use your contacts; bribe, blackmail, trick people to get the job done, basically do what you do best. By the end of the month I want to see the team fall… or at least some visible results on WWE programming."

"He does know that TNA is a suitable replacement, right?" Katy said.

"Do we have a deal, Azrael?" the mystery person asked.

"Please, Azzie," Katy whined. "Let me take this loser on! You better agree now and let me do it before T'laren comes back with that ice cream and I have enough sugar in me to run up and down the Empire State Building stairs, over and over and over…"

"Whatever you need for the operation will be supplied to you without question," the mystery person continued, taking Azrael's hesitation to be a sign of backing out. "Money is no object, although I suppose you of all people would have no problem in that department. And it'll give you a chance to wipe all that crap from television. Surely you can't still be saying no to this."

"I can't wait any longer, Azzie, I'm coming in!" Katy cried, as she apparently launched out of her chair and threw the van door open.

"Damnit, Katy, no, stay where you are!" Azrael yelled in a fit of frustration.

"Katy?" the robotic voice asked. And then it seemed to dawn on the person. "You have backup, don't you? Yes, yes, of course you do; frankly I would have been disappointed if hadn't done at least that much. Well, you'll find that I came prepared too."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Azrael demanded.

Outside T'laren was returning from where he had pestered the crew at McDonald's to serve him a Sundae in a custom-sized tub. He was just in time to see Katy disappearing into the church. "Oh great," he groaned.

And then his eyes caught a movement at the wall of the church farthest from him. A person in a dark trench coat stepped out of the shadows. At that precise moment a black, nondescript car turned the corner, grounded to a halt in front of the coated figure, waited for the person to get in and then sped off in to the night. Mud had been smeared on the license plates to keep anyone from identifying them.

With the alarm bells in his head going off, T'laren bolted for the church himself.

Inside Katy had burst in most indiscreetly and then proceeded to kick down the nearest confessional door. "I've got you, you scumbag!" she said triumphantly, only to be faced with an old priest, in the middle of absolving the sins of someone in the adjoining section, who looked quite taken aback with Katy's appearance.

"Katy," a dry voice said. Katy turned to find Azrael standing outside the fourth booth. "This would be the right one."

"Oh, right, right," Katy said. Running over before anybody could stop her, she let go with a jubilant, 'hi-YA!' and fairly flew into the door, knocking it wide open.

"Goddamnit, Katy, I told you to stay into the…" T'laren trailed off as he joined the girls in looking inside the booth.

It was empty save for a rather androgynous mannequin dressed in a black coat with a cap pulled low over its head, giving off the shadow Azrael had noticed earlier. On its lap balanced a radio and a large envelope. Katy groaned. "So he was never here all along!" she said. "And to think I missed 'The Biggest Loser' for this!"

"You watch 'The Biggest Loser'?" Azrael asked, momentarily throw off by that remark.

"Hey, all that jiggling fat in slow motion is hypnotizing," Katy said with a shrug.

Meanwhile T'laren had reached over and taken the radio. "So this was what was causing that disturbance," he mused. "I think he was conducting the business from outside all along."

"Outside?" Azrael asked.

"I'll tell you later," T'laren said, handing the envelope to her. "Right now, let's leave before the congregation regains its senses and decides to chase us out of here wielding torches and staffs. Come on, Katy," he took her arm.

"Oh hey, my ice cream!" she said, taking it from him and peering at it. "Hey, there's not enough sprinkles on this…" she complained as the two of them exited the church.

Azrael looked suspiciously at the envelope. A post-it had been placed on it saying, 'Azrael, consider this your starting capital.' Looking inside she did a quick estimate and placed the bundled cash at about ten thousand dollars. She wondered what kind of person would have the means to throw large amounts of money at something as crazy as taking on WWE creative, herself excluded.

"Excuse me, young lady," a firm voice said to her right. She turned to see the old priest looking ruffled. "I'm going to have to ask you to explain what all this is—"

He cut himself off when Azrael dropped two large bundles of cash in his hand. "That's for the disturbance and to pay for damages, father," she said, gesturing to the two broken doors. "Get the wall outside painted and the roof fixed too. Bye."

And with that she strode off after her two companions. It looked like she indeed had a job to do.


	2. A HalfHearted Union of Misfits

This chapter has actually been up on my LJ for quite a while now, but I couldn't seem to find the time to post it here. Anyway, for those who are interested and haven't seen it yet, here it is.

Date Uploaded: 30 May 2006

**Chapter 02: A Half-Hearted Union of Misfits**

Azrael had been told to assemble an elite team of capable, trustworthy people, the overall best there was. She found the perfect team of six men and eight women, but they happened to all be pains in the ass, so she went for the next best bunch.

"Take on WWE Creative? Didn't we already do something like that?" Luke asked.

"Why Luke, I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Azrael said, sitting down. "Now, we'll refrain from alluding to past events which may or may not have happened."

Luke rolled his eyes and simply mouthed a word that looked like 'Smarks'. Azrael chose to ignore him.

There were seven of them seated at a long table in a private room at an exclusive Chinese restaurant. Drinks and appetizers had already been served, and Katy had piled her plate with dimsums while Al was going through the wine list. Azrael had turned up late, but apparently T'laren had already given those who had arrived a brief explanation of why they were there.

There was of course T'laren. He had long been Azrael's main supplier of equipment for use on various things, the two most prominent exploits being espionage and torture. For the most part he was a calm, rational person, until faced with abstract stupidity and egotism. T'laren always had a tendency to carry weapons wherever he went, and the reason for that and where he actually kept them around his person seemed a rather tender thing to bring up in conversations.

Beside him was Katy, now more preoccupied with stacking her dimsums into a tall, stable pile than eating them. Katy, also known as HurriKaty, also known as Gibbly, also known as Candice Michelle's Worst Nightmare, and possibly also known by a dozen other aliases, was the Hurricane's ultimate fangirl. Despite Gregory Helms declaring that his superhero alter ego was no more, Katy still delighted in referring to him as such, or the even more sugary endearment 'Hurridoodles'. As Helms soon found out, restraining orders had no effect on this girl.

There was Luke, a moody, sometimes cynical, eccentric guy with a penchant for referencing a lot of obscure sci-fi shows. He had a tendency to lean towards the underdogs among the WWE rosters, and the weekly showcase of the popular wrestlers such as John Cena and Triple H left him with a bad taste in his mouth. Forever a Molly fan, he can still be found phoning up Nora Greenwald every now and then professing his eternal love to her.

Musey drummed her fingers on the table, obviously waiting for Al to make a choice. She was a self-confessed potty mouth and smoker, a lover of heavy metal who still had a healthy fangirl streak and a fetish for handbags and shoes. She was highly inquisitive, or in her own words rather nosy, and as such she made for a very good spy and informer, doing whatever she could to gather intelligence, even if it entailed some unconventional methods.

Having successfully wrestled a few dimsums from Katy's grasp, Tim had settled back into his seat and seemed to be the only one who looked impatient for the actual meeting to begin. An enthusiastic E-fed player, Tim's personal pet peeves were bad wrestling gimmicks and anybody who dared tell him that the show 'Rollergirls' sucked. One guy who had mistakenly done the latter was never seen again - a few may remember him as Chuck Palumbo. Or maybe not.

At the other end of the table was Al, wearing one of his usual three-piece suits and a little miffed that they were in a non-smoking section of the restaurant as he had had to tuck away one of his regular cigars. Al was a laid back, streetwise guy with no patience for beggars and liars. He had a rather unorthodox habit of smacking people on the back with steel chairs at any given place or time. Suffice to say that it did get him into trouble every now and then, not that it ever seemed to faze him, though.

And of course there was Azrael, who probably would have sanctioned an introduction had it not seemed incredibly Sue-ish on her part. Henceforth we will cut this paragraph and move on.

"So an unknown man who uses a voice distorter and wears a trench coat while skulking at church corners at night has hired us to disrupt Creative, is that it?" Al asked, barely looking up from the menu.

"You know, Al, usually the person at the head of the table does the briefing, unless she asks someone else to do it," Azrael said with a frown.

He looked up and grinned. "But you have to admit I did it quite succinctly, now didn't I? I'd also like to add that this may be one of the more asinine things I've heard in my life."

"So why are you here?"

"What else? Free food."

Azrael looked exasperated. "Is that why everybody else here showed up?"

"Yes," everyone else said in near unison, Tim through a mouthful of fried rolls.

"Speaking of which, Azzie, I think we're down one person," T'laren said, looking around. "We seem to be missing Pyper."

Luke groaned. "Why'd you have to bring her up?"

"Oh relax, Luke, she's not coming," Azrael said.

That made Katy drop a dimsum in surprise. "What? Why not?" she demanded, even as Al ordered a Laurent Perrier.

"Let's just say that after she encountered Tara Reid in Acapulco and ended up in a hair-grabbing bitch fight over who nicked whose booze, she's not looking for any excitement for a while," Azrael said, not looking amused. "Not that Pyper actually had any alcohol, but I believe she thought provoking Tara would be fun."

"Was it recorded?" Tim inquired.

"Do you have to ask?"

"Wait, so who's taking her place?" Musey asked. "Or is this team just going to go seven-strong?"

At that the door opened again and the last member stalked in. Torcha was a sharp-witted, opinionated woman who, like so many others, had forsaken WWE programming in recent months due to lackluster... anything, really. She had a soft spot for jobbers, especially one Stevie Richards, and intense dislike for the 'divas' who provided nothing more than eye candy, which included every blonde on the rosters. She was dressed in her usual black and camo ensemble, and didn't seem the least bit fazed to see that she had turned up last.

"Ah, yes, I'm fashionably late than even Azrael was, perfect," Torcha said, going to take the last empty seat at the table. "I timed my entrance just right."

"You timed your entrance after mine?" Azrael said incredulously.

"Well, not really, there was a three-car pileup at the freeway that held me up for an hour," Torcha said with a shrug. "I saw you enter a couple of minutes before me and decided to save myself the first part that entailed a lot of useless bickering."

"You didn't quite miss all of it," Musey said. "We're about three quarters in. And Al hasn't taken his first sip of alcohol yet."

"Time to remedy that," Al said happily, as the wine he had ordered arrived.

Azrael groaned, aware that she had lost control of this meeting. "Fine, everybody's here for the food, I was upstaged by Torcha and it seems we're all going to get drunk, save for Katy."

Katy scowled at that. "Oh yeah, shove it in my face that I'm a minor, will you? And to think I had a fake ID I wanted to try out too!"

"You mean the one that claims you're twenty-nine years old, of Puerto Rican heritage and named 'Consuela Esperanza Sanchez-Enriquez'?" Tim asked dryly.

"Yeah," Katy replied nonchalantly. "What, you think I couldn't pull it off?"

"Anyway, let's cut this short," Azrael continued. "Some wacko we don't know is prepared to pay us good money to take on and possibly even take out the WWE creative team. Over this extremely plentiful Chinese food and what I garner is very expensive wine that Al just ordered, who's in?"

"I am," T'laren said immediately. "I want to find out who the hell the dude in the trenchcoat is."

"And I'm in, seeing as Pyper's not around you're down a psycho," Katy said with a grin as she surreptitiously tried to sneak Al's glass of wine from him.

"Nice try," Al said, catching her wrist and taking it from her. "I'm in too."

"So am I," Tim said, and Musey nodded while in the middle of spooning steamed barramundi on her plate.

"All right, I'm in too," Luke said. "Strictly for the pay, though."

"Oh come on, admit it, you want an opportunity to wreak a little havoc, don't you?" Torcha said, grinning. "Speaking of which, I'm in."

"All you got was a one sentence explanation. Do you even fully know what you're agreeing to?" Luke asked her.

"Not one bit," Torcha responded, holding her glass as Al filled it up. "But seeing as the usual suspects are here, give or take a few, and Azzie up there is willing to throw money at this thing, then it's going to be a fun little misadventure to occupy my free time."

Azrael sighed and accepted a glass from Tim. "Well, at least that's affirmation from everyone. So eat up, we begin formally tomorrow."

"A toast!" Musey said, lifting her glass. "To the almost half-hearted union of misfits dedicated to bringing about the steady decline to the evil that is the WWE creative team."

"You know, that's actually a pretty catchy mission statement; too bad I won't be able to remember it by the time the hour is over," Al said with a grin.

And all eight of them downed their drinks. The mission was officially on.

The wrath of God, as many have deduced, was mighty and destructive. It seemed the Almighty had merely taken the antics of His phony manifestations at RAW in stride, however, and had not thought it worthy of His personal intervention, despite the tiresomeness of it all. So, naturally, that was the first thing that the saboteurs thought to target.

"You know, it's probably a good thing I'm not a particularly devout Catholic," Azrael said, adjusting the microphone in front of her. "If I were I would find what we're about to do blasphemous."

"If you were a devout Catholic, we probably wouldn't have Azrael, period," T'laren pointed out, fiddling with the switches to the audio equipment.

"Good point," Azrael conceded. "Is everything set up?"

"Yeah, Tim and Katy have just finished sneaking the speakers up to Vince's room," T'laren said. "We should be good to go in just another couple of minutes."

The mission had begun a little earlier than Azrael had declared back at lunch. It was now a quarter of an hour to midnight of the same day and four of the eight had gone about with the first phase of the plan that Azrael and the rest had concocted on the back of a table napkin at the Chinese restaurant. Technically all eight of the group should have been present, but Al, Torcha, Musey and even Luke had more than their fair share of alcohol and were presumably sleeping it off, or out drinking some more. Either way, the remaining lucid members had decided to go on with what they had planned for that night.

The first phase entailed hunting down the hotel Vince McMahon was residing in for that night. After a rather garbled conversation with Vince's airheaded secretary of the month, Tim had found out that the chairman was staying at the Hilton not far from where RAW was airing that week. Room 6310.

Katy and Tim had then gone about breaking into the room, which involved Katy in a pilfered maid's outfit three sizes too big for her and Tim hiding in cleaning trolleys (although there had been an argument over switching roles). From there they set up the tiny, bug-like devices that served as speakers.

Outside in a small alley was the inconspicuous black van of last chapter, where T'laren made the necessary audio arrangements and Azrael kept track of where Vince was at all times, meaning she was merely on the phone to different people the whole time. It was fifteen minutes to the stroke of midnight when the WWE Chairman arrived at the hotel.

"Katy, Tim, Vince is here," Azrael said into her phone. "Get out of there now."

"But I haven't even left him a little surprise in his closets yet," Katy complained.

"Katy, we talked about this, NO 'surprises'," Azrael said.

"You're no fun," Katy said with a sigh. "All right. Come on, Tim, time to get back into the trolley!"

"Give me a minute, would you?" Tim could be heard saying. "That place is cramped and smells of noxious cleaning chemicals…"

"You could walk out of here in the maid's outfit, you know."

"Trolley's not so bad," Tim replied quickly.

Azrael ended the call and turned to T'laren. "All right, all we have to do now is wait for Vince to crawl into bed and turn off the lights."

"You know what to say, right?" T'laren asked her.

"When have I ever been at loss for words?"

"Never. But I can name more than a few times when you've brashly ignored saying the right thing."

Azrael waved that off. "Trust me, I won't mess this up. Besides, spooking Vince out is going to be a hell of a lot of fun."

T'laren shrugged at that, as on the screen in front of them they could see into Vince's hotel room and noted that Katy had finally finished stuffing Tim into the trolley and was now in the process of wheeling it and him out, the door closing behind them. After that it was a relatively short wait, only it seemed longer as both in the van were anxious for this to be over and done with. When ten minutes had passed, Vince McMahon finally walked into his hotel room.

"Did we miss anything?" Katy asked as she and Tim clambered into the van and slid the door shut.

"Nope, Vince is… still heading towards the mini-bar," T'laren said with a sigh. "Well, that'll take another ten minutes or so. Speaking of which, you two came down here pretty quickly."

"We nearly got busted," Tim confessed. "The chick Katy got her uniform from caught us in the laundry area. Before she could start screaming Katy flung the clothes at her and I got out of the trolley. We ran out here as fast as we could. I don't think anyone saw us."

"Great," T'laren groaned. "All the more reason to hurry this all up before the authorities are called and an investigation or something begins."

"And Vince is still in the middle of downing a G&T," Azrael said dryly, watching the screen. "Oh, wait, now he's about to get undressed."

At that Katy immediately shrieked. "Start talking, start talking!" she cried, shoving Azrael towards the microphone. "I already have to see his ass on RAW, I don't think my fragile mind can handle full frontal!"

"Well, it's earlier than we planned, but we might as well go ahead with it," T'laren said. "Now everybody shut up or Vince will think he's hearing four voices instead of one." Reaching over, he turned the microphone on.

Azrael cleared her throat. "Vincent."

In the hotel room, Vince McMahon dropped the glass he was holding in shock. The voice distorter had done wonders, sending out a booming tone that could foster the image of ably calling down fire and brimstone onto whoever was listening. "Who's there?" Vince demanded, both angry and fearful.

"Your day of judgment is close, Vincent Kennedy McMahon," Azrael said in the van, cheesing it up as much as she could. "You have blasphemed and taken the good Lord's name in vain. You have turned His presence into a mere sideshow of dim lights and pyrotechnics."

"I've… What?" Vince looked flabbergasted as he spun in a hysterical semi-circle in the middle of the room, looking up and in all directions, trying in vain to find the source of the mysterious voice. If he had checked under the nearest lampshade he would have found one source, though.

"Do not attempt to deny it, Vincent. The Almighty sees all, and He is not pleased with you. You have made a mockery of Him and punishment will be dealt out to you and future generations. Your empire will decline and your offspring will curse your name."

Behind Azrael, Katy, Tim and T'laren were trying hard not to burst out laughing. While the self-proclaimed Angel of Death continued spouting out pronouncements of doom Vince kept reacting in pure shock, jumping at every hard syllable and turning from deep red to a horribly pale white. One could hardly blame him; if a disembodied voice suddenly called out your impending fall and demise it would be hard to react any differently.

"It all starts tomorrow, Vincent," Azrael went on, even as Katy let out a rather loud giggle that both Tim and T'laren had to placate. "As it closes on the ninth hour you will face the demons you yourself have wrought."

So far everything seemed to be going the team's way, until something happened that they had no way of foreseeing.

"Who, where, what-" Vince suddenly stopped babbling incoherent sentences and his eyes bulged. He grabbed the left side of his chest and let out a strangled cry, dropping to his knees. Before the stunned eyes of the four people in the van, Vince McMahon, the Chairman of WWE and founder of the highly dubious 'McMahonism', gasped for air and tried to grab the armrest of the nearest sofa, missing and instead crumbling to the floor. He twitched for a fraction of a moment before laying absolutely still.

Dumbfounded silence reigned in the black van more than sixty stories down. Azrael, T'laren, Katy and Tim stared at the black and white screen in front of them, where Vince lay side by side with his spilt gin and tonic. A minute passed.

And then Tim spoke. "Shit, I think we killed him."

"Maybe he's just passed out," Katy offered.

"Sure. Right after he gasped for air and clutched his chest," T'laren said.

"I really think we killed him," Tim repeated.

It was another few moments before Azrael scrounged up something else to say. She sighed. "Well, this throws the mother of all wrenches into our plan."


End file.
